


Ashes and Ghosts (They Fill My Heart)

by a_quirk_called_insanity



Series: We Pick Ourselves Undone [4]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes Returns, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Matchmaker Natasha Romanov, Nightmares, On Hiatus, POV Steve Rogers, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers Has PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-07-21 21:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7405612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_quirk_called_insanity/pseuds/a_quirk_called_insanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky fell, and Steve lost everything.<br/>Now, they've been given another chance. Bucky attempts to pick up the pieces, and Steve tries to make it work.<br/>Or: Bucky holds on and Steve doesn't let go.</p><p>Post Winter Soldier, not Civil War compliant.</p><p>CURRENTLY ON HIATUS</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the wait, there's been a lot going on recently and I'm going on vacation in less than a week, which means crappy internet until I get back. I'll try to post before then.  
> This is going to be a multi-chapter fic, and it's in a series that has three works before it, so if you haven't read those, I highly recommend you do. I'm really excited about this, and I'll try to not turn this into an angst overload.  
> Title not mine, it's from "Ashes and Ghosts" by The Cult.  
> Thanks again to my wonderful beta Phyoaros. :)  
> Warnings will go by chapter, so please read them beforehand. As always, if you think any of this will trigger you, please stay safe and don't read!  
> TW: brief description of a panic attack, a bit of swearing, lots of angst/regret, past character sort-of-death.  
> Enjoy!

The first time Bucky broke into Steve’s apartment, he nearly had a heart attack.

He had been on a mission with Sam and Tony, and it had left both him and Stark severely pissed. All he wanted to do was take a hot shower and collapse into bed. It was already late- the time was approaching 2 am, and he was more than ready to sleep, especially after his heated argument with Stark, which had mainly consisted of Tony telling him he needed to get his head out of his ass and “focus on the mission, Rogers, or you'll get us all killed” or some shit like that. Steve knew exactly what was distracting him, but that didn't mean he could stop thinking about him. Bucky had officially taken over not just his brain, but his sketchbook as well. Pages and pages were covered with Bucky smiling and laughing, the way Bucky bit his cheek and clenched his shoulders when he was focused, the way his eyes practically glowed when their lips had met in a frenzied kiss. Although it was mostly Bucky from the 20th century, there were a few sketches of a different Bucky- one with empty eyes and a cold, metal arm, who had punched Steve over and over, a look of terrified desperation painted on his face. Steve still hadn't finished any of those. It made his current situation feel too real, too hopeless. 

Steve let out a sigh and drew his key out of his pocket, fumbling with it in the dark until the lock clicked and the door swung open. He knew he had been more withdrawn, more distant, ever since DC, but he wasn't letting it get in the way of the mission. Still, that wasn't an excuse. Bucky had left. He was gone. He was probably already in some remote country thousands of miles away, establishing a cover and getting as far away from all the people after him. Still, Steve clung to hope, no matter how many times Sam told him Bucky wouldn't be found unless he wanted to be. If only-

Steve froze, jaw dropped. It was almost like someone had heard his wishes, because there he was, passed out on Steve’s worn-out couch.

Bucky. 

He was curled around one of the throw pillows Natasha had dragged him out to buy, insisting his apartment needed decorations so it would look less like a “miserable loner” lived there. (They bought only a few things before “decorations” turned into “ _Seriously?_ You've _never_ had Dippin’ Dots?” Natasha had spent the rest of the day buying him food that he'd honestly been scared to put into his mouth.) He was somehow in worse shape than the last time Steve had seen him. Both his tattered, filthy army jacket and the shirt underneath were bloody and ripped, and he could see the outline of gauze on his stomach and shoulder underneath his shirt. His face was covered in stubble and he stank of alcohol. At first, Steve was worried Bucky was dead, but then he'd stirred slightly, and Steve let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. 

Okay. Steve took a deep breath and _very slowly_ closed the door behind him. When the door clicked shut, Bucky flinched, but didn't wake up. Steve figured the only reason why could be explained by the scent of alcohol clinging to him. Steve stayed like that for another minute, trying to calm his racing heart. He figured the man wouldn't react too well to someone hovering over him when he woke up, and he couldn't be sure how much of the person in front of him was the Winter Soldier and how much was James Barnes. Better to play it safe and not wake him up until he had at least a semblance of a plan.

All thoughts of a hot shower and then retreating to his bed vanished as he crossed the living room on tiptoe and entered his bedroom, grabbing a blanket and bringing it back to the couch. He carefully spread it over Bucky, ignoring the painful feeling in his chest, and gently brushed a strand of dark hair off his face. He looked younger asleep- he always had, and Steve can still remember quietly sitting on the foot of the bed, sketching Bucky’s face and trying to capture the youth in his expression before he woke up and returned to a state of weary perseverance. Now, staring down at him, Steve’s eyes took in every detail: the crease between his eyebrows was smoothed over, and light from outside despite the hour trickled in through the window and made his metal arm glisten. Bucky’s expression was almost… peaceful. He looked more like Steve’s Bucky, like he had when they were growing up- hiding his fears and uncertainty under layers of snark and sarcasm, still managing to be around for Steve and take care of him, even when working two or three jobs at once, even when they were hanging on by a mere thread, even when they couldn’t afford more than scraps of food and the cheapest whiskey available.

Steve reluctantly left Bucky’s side to go to his own bed, but as he laid in the silence of his apartment, he found himself tossing and turning, constantly readjusting the pillows and sheets, glancing at the clock on his bedside table and groaning as the minutes crept by. He would never be able to sleep in his bed, knowing Bucky was one room down. Finally, Steve caved and grabbed a pillow and blanket for himself. He settled in the taupe armchair perpendicular to the couch, where he was close enough to see Bucky, but far enough away to give the man space. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, yet after a few minutes, Steve drifted off to the sound of Bucky’s rhythmic breathing.

* * * * * * * * * *

Steve woke up gradually. When he gained consciousness, it was to lethargic serenity. For the first time in a long while, longer than since he came out of the ice, he woke up naturally. Normally, it would be to his own desperate screams, thrashing underneath his covers, trying to escape something that wasn’t there. Other times, he woke up to a tight chest and the inability to breathe, panic closing his throat, like when he still had asthma. It was disorienting to wake up so peacefully, and especially so late. Sunlight was streaming in through the cracks in his blinds, bathing the room in a soft golden glow. It took him a moment to remember why he had slept so well: Bucky. Bucky, alive and safe, sleeping on Steve’s couch. He could feel a small smile tugging at his mouth as he yawned and sluggishly blinked the slumber out of his eyes. His eyes flitted over to the worn couch, and-

All remaining traces of sleep vanished as he took in the scene before him. The couch was empty, and his window was still open. Bucky was gone. Steve slammed his eyes shut, blocking the tears before they had time to form. He gripped the armchair hard enough for the material to tear and swallowed a sob. Bucky had been _right there_. He’d been right inside Steve’s apartment. And yet Steve had somehow managed to lose him. _Again_.

Steve took a tremulous breath and, ever so slowly, stood up and made his way over to the coffee machine. His whole body felt unnaturally heavy, like he was still dreaming. He slowly walked to his small kitchen, each footstep taking more effort than the last. Everyone was dead. His parents, his friends. Peggy. _Bucky_. Steve had been left alone in a world he didn’t belong in, decades out of his time and struggling to stay afloat. Then, the mask had fallen off and Steve had stared at the face of his past, alive and present and _real_. When Bucky recognized him, when their eyes met and Steve could see Bucky mouth his name, Steve had dared to hope.

Then Bucky had fallen, and like always, Steve was too slow to stop it.

Once again, he had lost the person he cared about the most.

He brewed himself a pot of coffee and downed the whole thing. It was bitter and hot and reminded him of home, something he lost on that train all those years ago. Everything hurt. He shouldn't have fallen asleep. He should’ve stayed awake and waited for Bucky’s eyes to open, should’ve done anything he could to keep him there, should’ve held on tight and refused to let go. Bucky had slipped right between his fingers for the fourth time, and Steve wasn’t sure if he’d ever get a fifth. Four chances were already too many, and yet he’d wasted them all.

Bucky wasn’t even Bucky, he was the Winter Soldier. Bucky was gone. Dead. Nothing had changed. Everyone was still gone.

The sky rumbled, loud and deep, and the clouds began to cry upon New York City.

Steve cried with them.


	2. Road to Ruin (One More Troubled Soul)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry for the wait, I was travelling, and had really awful/completely absent wifi. This chapter is a bit longer to make up for the wait!  
> Disclaimer: characters and chapter title not mine, they belong to Marvel and Fall Out Boy respectively.  
> Thanks, as always, for all the support so far, as well as my wonderful beta Phyoaros for putting up with me! :)  
> Without further ado, please enjoy!

It wasn’t until a week later that Steve saw Bucky again.

His apartment was still and painfully silent, a constant reminder of what Steve had managed to lose yet again. There was a hole in his chest, a gaping pit, and nothing to make it go away. When Natasha called him with a mission, he leapt at the chance to escape the suffocating emptiness of his home. Maybe he would finally accept Tony’s offer and move into Avengers Tower. At least there, he wouldn’t be alone, though he knew from experience that just because he was surrounded by other people didn’t mean that he no longer fell victim to the stabbing loneliness that hadn’t left him since SHIELD brought him out of the ice. 

He threw himself into battle with a ferocity and disregard to his own safety that he knew worried Natasha and Sam, but his mind was full of _Bucky_. The last time he’d felt loss so clearly, he’d crashed a plane into the ocean and prayed for death. It seemed to be a trend with him; someone close to him was torn away and he lost all sense of self-preservation. After his mother’s funeral, Bucky had dragged Steve to the hospital for his broken arm, collapsed lung, and fractured jaw after Steve purposely provoked four different people, all while Bucky was at work. He knew his tendencies were dangerous and reckless and self-destructive in a way that was a sign for something further, but the adrenaline and injuries and bone-deep exhaustion dragged his mind away from his suffering like nothing else. By the end of the battle, no one was surprised to find him with two broken ribs, a severely-fractured jaw, two gunshot wounds, and a concussion. The supersoldier serum made him heal faster, and harder to hurt, but it didn’t make him invincible. He still had to sit through the agony of a bullet being pulled out of his leg. Still, he had gotten the job done, and that was all that mattered.

(And if the immense pain had made him forget all about a certain soldier who had collapsed on his couch only a few days back, then that was simply an added bonus.)

So when Steve stumbled down the hall, extensive injuries already treated to and healing, and had the burning desire to collapse into bed and not get up until the next mission, he was smacked in the face with such a strong sense of deja vu that he couldn’t help but hope. He slowly unlocked his door, and ever so slowly pushed it open, until he got a clear view of an unmistakably empty couch. His heart sank and his healing ribs gave a particularly painful twinge. He knew it was naive to expect anything else, but Bucky had been there only a week ago and _that had to mean_ something, _dammit, because_ something _was better than nothing and he couldn’t cope with nothingness, couldn’t fix something that wasn’t even_ there, _and-_

Bucky was standing in his kitchen.

Bucky _was standing in his_ kitchen.

 

He had one of Steve’s kitchen knives in his right hand, but Steve was too in shock to feel any sort of concern over it. He was hallucinating-he _had_ to be. What other explanation was there? He was too busy standing there, frozen, to stop the door from slamming behind him, and the loud noise broke the spell. For a second he was worried the sudden sound would send Bucky fleeing yet again, but all he did was cautiously place the knife on the countertop and stare at Steve’s chin like it was his most interesting feature. Steve could see how tense he was even from where he was standing, could see him preparing to either run or pick the knife back up and drive it into Captain America's neck, and yes he had put it back down, but the Winter Soldier had shot him multiple times, so he figured he was justified in his concerns. 

“I- I- you were on a mission, and -” Bucky’s stammering was painful to listen to, especially how his voice wavered and cracked, barely louder than a whisper like he’d been caught doing something horribly wrong. (Technically, he had, Steve reasoned; breaking and entering was very illegal, but he couldn't care less.)

“Bucky,” Steve breathed, because his brain still wasn't fully caught up and it felt like he was dreaming, like as soon as he fully registered what was going on, it would all vanish and he'd jolt awake in a cold sweat. Bucky twitched at the name, and Steve could finally see how bad his entire right arm was shaking, but there were no signs of hostility. 

“Steve,” Bucky said. His voice was hoarse and hesitant, like he was tasting the word on his lips, and it was the best thing Steve had heard since he'd come out of the ice. He watched as Bucky’s hand travelled back to the knife, but stopped before he reached it, grabbing the countertop edge instead like the floor was going to drop out from underneath them. Steve was almost sure it already had,with the odd, swooping sensation in his stomach.

“Do you… Do you remember me?” Steve had a hard time keeping the swell of hope out of his voice, and he knew he’d failed before the sentence was even over. Bucky tilted his head and relaxed his grip on the counter, leaving behind a large indent, and mouthed something that Steve couldn’t decipher. He nodded jerkily before reaching into a large pocket in his coat and Steve’s hand twitched in the direction of his shield, not sure what Bucky was going to pull out, but relaxed when he saw it was only papers. They had blood splotches on them, vividly red and sharp in contrast to the scrawl covering the sheets. Bucky held them out and Steve took it as a peace offering of sorts, taking a few careful steps toward him so he could accept the papers. Their fingers brushed and Bucky jumped backwards, hitting the stove with a muttered curse.

Steve scanned the papers, struggling to read the messy writing. The words and phrases were disjointed, chaotic, but as he made his way through each page, he understood what exactly it was he was reading.

Bucky’s memories.

There were huge gaps- that much was evident from the sheer lack of writing, and many scribbled fragments were followed by question marks, but it was more than Steve could’ve ever hoped for. Bucky was still there, buried under decades of Hydra’s programming. He had a chance. They both did.

“You know,” Steve began softly. “My couch is always empty. And there’s usually food in the fridge.” Bucky stared. “If you ever need a safe place to stay, that is.” Steve cleared his throat, suddenly unsure. He knew he’d have to take this slow if he wanted a chance of getting Bucky back, and one false move could easily scare him off forever. But he wanted this. He wanted Bucky.

Ever so slowly, Bucky nodded.

************

That night was the first time he truly noticed how lorn his bed was.

(The next morning, Steve woke up to an empty apartment and a strange, fluttering sensation in his stomach. 

For the first time in a long while, Steve felt hopeful.)

************

It became a regular occurrence- Bucky would stumble in through Steve's unlocked window at all hours of the night, with varying levels of injury and drunkenness. It was never anything severe- cuts and bruises, mostly- but he still watched Bucky's trip from the window to the couch and checked him for injuries he may have hidden. If Bucky was still asleep when Steve woke up, he would make enough breakfast for two super soldiers instead of just one, and Bucky would awake to the smell of food. If Steve didn't have somewhere he needed to be, they would eat together, Steve filling the silence with meaningless chatter. Bucky insisted on washing both their plates, and as soon as they were both clean, he would leave once more. Each time Steve watched him climb out the window and disappear, he would resume his worrying, hoping, _praying,_ that Bucky would return to him safely. It felt like he was repeating watching Bucky go off to war over and over, each time leaving him behind. Then, a night or two or three later, Bucky would return and the cycle would begin again. 

It was almost a month after Bucky had first passed out on Steve's couch when he was woken by a frantic call from Clint, saying he was needed at the tower ASAP. There was an urgent mission in Europe they were needed for. Steve quickly grabbed his go-bag and was about to leave when he remembered Bucky. What would he think if Steve just vanished? Clint hadn't said how long it would take, so he doubled back and wrote Bucky a quick note, explaining the situation and urging him to keep using Steve's apartment as a safehouse. 

When everyone gathered at the Avengers Tower, Tony ushered them all into his private jet (and wasn't that a luxury compared to Steve’s cheap, one-bedroom apartment. It was pitiful, how a superhero’s home was worse-off than a plane) before delivering the mission. AIM and HYDRA had decided to wreak havoc all over England, and it was unknown if they were working with or against each other. The British military had called them in for assistance. The jet took off and Steve claimed a seat in the back, surprised when Natasha followed and perched on the seat directly across from him. She folded her hands on the table and waited for everyone to settle into their usual preparation to address him.

“Something's changed,” she guessed quietly. “You've been dedicating all of your time and energy to finding the Winter Soldier for months. You called me a dozen times a week to see if my contacts had any leads. Now, you haven't called- or returned my calls- for three weeks, and you've stopped looking altogether.”

Steve froze, growing steadily more anxious as Natasha spoke. He desperately searched for some sort of excuse that she would accept. It wasn't that he didn't trust Nat- he trusted her with his life- but no one could know that he was harboring a Russian assassin and known international fugitive. If word got out, they'd both be arrested, and Bucky would be tried for the crimes HYDRA had forced him to commit. Steve would be tried too, for consorting with and aiding a man who was practically on terrorist alert. Captain America’s reputation would be ruined. Not that Steve cared about what it would do to his image- Bucky's safety came first. Always had, always would. No matter the cost. 

“It's just, we've been searching for so long with no leads,” he improvised. “If he wants to be found, he’ll-”

“Or maybe he's in New York,” she interrupted, glancing around at the team to make sure no one was in hearing range as Steve’s heart crawled up his throat. “And you've seen him. Cut the bullshit, Rogers. You're a horrible liar.”

“What reason would he have to come here?”

“You.” There was a moment of silence where Steve struggled to find a response and Natasha grinned smugly. “Don't try denying it, Cap. I already know. I've been keeping tabs on him ever since we had a drink together.”

Steve made a strangled sound and spent the next few minutes coughing and spluttering in shock, waving off concerned looks from the other Avengers. “Why didn't you-”

“I promised,” was her reply. “He wanted to see you, that much was obvious, but he's scared that you don't want to see him. He's done bad things. Lots of them. Things he's not proud of. He's not the man you grew up with.”

“I don't care,” Steve hissed. “It isn't his fault. I want to help him, but if he doesn't even want to talk to me, how can I?” At Natasha's raised eyebrow, he added, “He's been crashing on my couch.”

Natasha didn't even flinch, remaining a completely neutral expression. “Aiding a known fugitive,” she said, but Steve couldn't detect any hint of accusation, only something resembling pride. “Be patient. He'll come around. Just wait.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Like always, reviews are so awesome and I really appreciate them! :D Thanks so much for all the support you've given this series so far, and have an incredible day! :)


End file.
